6 minute read
let your light shine: exploring our obsession with festivals of light
Hannah Patient
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Each year in mid-November, Oxford celebrates a Christmas Light Festival. The city centre is illuminated with the suddenness of an electric shock: art installations flicker, torches blaze, and a lantern parade shimmers through the streets like a snail trail.
This year, I attended the Light Festival’s promotional installation for the new “Talking Maps” exhibition at the Bodleian. Visitors stood in the central courtyard and watched as projections of ancient maps from the library’s archives danced over the walls. As soothing music played, images of long-lost civilisations and forgotten kingdoms rippled over the creamy stone, and a swollen new moon rolled along like a big cheese at the Cooper’s Hill festival.
As I watched, it all began to blur into one. For millennia, civilisations across the globe have based their festivals and rituals on light. Humans love to celebrate both the short-term movement of day into night and the lengthier rhythms of the seasons, whether by focusing on natural sources of light like the sun, moon and stars, or by creating their own in the form of candles and, more recently, electricity. As the art installation finished and the logo of the Bodleian Libraries replaced the moving images, I was reminded that Oxford University’s motto is itself “dominus illuminatio mea”: “the Lord is my light”, a reference to the institution’s specifically Christian roots.
I started to wonder whether there was a way of reconciling the world’s fascination with light with my own cultural identity as a Christian. Many people argue that, in celebrating Christmas, Christians are simply appropriating the Roman festival of the Saturnalia, which commemorated the winter solstice, the coming of light, and the birth of the new year. Yet to me it seems obvious that a religion so deeply invested in the conflict between light and darkness should follow the natural rhythms of a calendar year which was brought into being by a creator God who “said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light” (Gen 1:3 NIV).
Saint Augustine wrote, “Hence it is that He was born on the day which is the shortest in our earthly reckoning and from which subsequent days begin to increase in length. He, therefore, who bent low and lifted us up chose the shortest day, yet the one whence light begins to increase.”1 We may never know the exact date or even year in which Jesus was born, but the positioning of Christmas at the darkest point of winter seems to mirror the core message of this festival of light and love.
Other Christian festivals are also dependent on light. The positioning of Easter in the Church’s year is based on a complex sequence of calculations related to the astronomical calendar and the timing of the Paschal full moon, while the holiday’s movable nature is rooted in its ties to the Jewish festival of Passover. The importance of light is even more pronounced in Jewish tradition, since the Jewish calendar is heavily based on solar and lunar cycles; festivals only begin when the sun has set on the evening of the first day, and likewise end at sundown on the evening of the last day.
Although the yearly movement of Easter can sometimes feel confusing and arbitrary, its link to the Passover feast is reminiscent of Christ’s symbolic role as the Passover lamb, the ultimate sacrifice. The complex interplay between darkness and light mirrors the Easter story’s movement from total despair—when “darkness came over the whole land” (Luke 23:44 NIV)—to the incandescent hope brought by the promise of eternal life.
The same tension between darkness and light, despair and hope, is played out throughout the Christian year. In the season of Advent, candles are lit in churches every Sunday to mark the coming of Christ. Over the Christmas period, Christingle oranges are decorated with sweets, cloves and candles in order to represent the presence of the “Light of the World”. And throughout the year, candles may be lit at baptisms as a symbol of guidance on the commencing journey of faith and a sign of Christ’s triumph over evil.
In the Jewish calendar, too, candles are used to mark the beginning of major festivals such as Yom Kippur, Rosh Hashanah, and Hanukkah, while the Sabbath is ushered in each Friday before sunset with Shabbat candles. The distinction between natural and manmade light blurs as the candles continue to burn after the day has died; they are a symbol of hope, functioning as a reminder of joy, God’s divine presence, and the human soul.
Candles have a similar role in Christian tradition. All year round, visitors to churches can leave an offering in the form of a votive candle, which can symbolise anything from prayer to the memory of a lost loved one. I am often struck by how drawn my non-Christian friends are to the votive candles in the churches we visit whilst travelling. I tend to skip past them, viewing them as just another ordinary part of the churches’ furniture; it is my friends who take the initiative to light a candle and spend a moment or two in reflection.
Perhaps this eagerness stems from the universality of the ritual: cultures the world over celebrate festivals of light. The Hindu festival of Diwali commemorates the triumph of goodness over evil with the illumination of decorated oil lamps, fireworks, and candles. In the Thai tradition of Loi Krathong, decorated baskets, often containing candles, are floated down the river as a sign of respect for the goddess of water. Back in Britain, pagans celebrate the four Celtic fire festivals (Samhain, Imbolc, Beltain, and Lughnasadh), in which sacred bonfires serve as a purifying and protective force.
Festivals of light aren’t even necessarily religious. Whilst on holiday in Austria a few years ago, I was introduced to the secular festival of White Night, in which all the townspeople dress up in white, watch a fashion show, and revel in the long nights and blue skies guaranteed by the Tyrolean summer. Secular celebrations like Bonfire Night and New Year’s Eve also harness the power of light, with fireworks, bonfires, and sparklers briefly lifting the darkness of winter.
It seems that, no matter what our beliefs, we share an innate human longing to celebrate light—either to rejoice in its presence, or to remind ourselves that it is coming, no matter how bleak the darkness. And yet, in the modern world, we are in danger of losing our connection to these natural, eternal annual rhythms. As cities expand, light pollution blots out the stars and we are deprived of the crucial sense of our position in the universe. Manmade light is frequently a force for good, but, as with most things, too much of it can have negative consequences: the pollution of our skies is linked to sleep disorders, stress, and anxiety. It is no wonder that, when night is no longer the time for sleep, the daily grind feels endless and exhausting. The mad rush of modern life, with its barrage of deadlines and constant pressure to be “switched on”, leaves us no time to tune back into the natural rhythms of the year.
This is precisely why festivals like Christmas and Easter are so important—they remind us to slow down, relax and take some time to reflect. In Oxford, we are often in real danger of forgetting that humans aren’t meant to rush around continuously, but if even God “rested from all His work” (Gen 2:2), why shouldn’t we do the same?
The positioning of festivals throughout the year serves as a reminder to unwind, have fun, and remember that there is hope in the darkness. So let there be light!
Hannah studied English at Somerville. She likes piña coladas but hates getting caught in the rain. Three years of studying great literature and £27k later, she still prefers detective stories.
